À Rebours
by tantei no hime
Summary: Les Amis, before the dawn of the revolution.


**Setting:** Canon Era

 **Rating:** T

 **Genre:** General, Friendship

 **Characters:** Grantaire, Musichetta, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Prouvaire, Combeferre, Enjolras

 **Word Count:** 985

 **A/N:** Happy Barricade Day! Gah, I missed writing for Les Mis.

* * *

 _ **À Rebours**_

 _Neuf_ _._

Grantaire sits at their usual table at the Corinthe, trying to get Gibelotte to accompany him in breaking his fast. There's a tankard next to him as yet unrefilled by the serving girl. Their _Bini_ , the twin stars, the Eagle of Meaux and his four _ailles_ that accompany him everywhere, are late to Grantaire's meagre feast, and he doesn't doubt that they're still bidding adieu to their mistress.

Ah, but there's that lively _gamin_ again, aiming stones at street lamps, all the while shouting that the street herself must wear her weeds. Perhaps Enjolras will have his funeral after all.

No matter, Grantaire will not be forced to join him.

* * *

 _Huit_ _._

Joly sneezes yet again. It is a bad day to start a revolution, he thinks, looking out from a window as Musichetta gets to the task of dressing herself after last night's tryst. The sky's grey, and the rain that no doubt follows might damage their gunpowder. It will also be bad for his cold, which he doesn't doubt will turn into pneumonia once he exposes himself to the elements.

Ah, but Musichetta is lovely, is she not? He hates to leave like this, and in this weather.

No matter, he will come back after the Republic is reborn.

* * *

 _Sept._

Bossuet yelps as he trips over a cravat lying on the floor. He can't tell whose it is, but in either case, his foot must have ruined it by now. Musichetta's still lying on the bed, too lazy to fully clothe herself, while Joly's gazing at the window, a thoughtful look on his face. Bossuet's sudden yelp made both of them turn their attention to him. Now he's rubbing the back of his bald head from where it hit the floor, and he doesn't doubt that there will be a bump there later.

Ah, but Musichetta's and Joly's peals of laughter sound like music to Bossuet's ears. It's good–natured, however, and in the next moment, they're both by his side to pull him up from the floor and the mess he made.

No matter, Bossuet will be careful next time.

* * *

 _Six_ _._

Bahorel throws another punch at his opponent. This particular café's lively today, but perhaps it is just Paris' way of relieving the tension she's harbored since the cholera epidemic. He's been holding himself back, though, for he needs to conserve his strength for the Revolution. It is at that moment that his opponent catches him unawares and throws a punch that Bahorel fails to avoid, hitting him square in the eye, and he doesn't doubt he'll be sporting a lovely bruise there come tomorrow.

Ah, but isn't this the point of a match? One must be prepared for all possibilities, even defeat. Bahorel throws his hands up, laughing.

No matter, Bahorel will win the next match.

* * *

 _Cinq_ _._

Courfeyrac sorts through his extensive wardrobe, trying to pick out an appropriate attire for the coming revolution, humming the tune of _Ça Ira_ as he did so. His sword cane sits at the far side of the room, ready to be picked up at a moment's notice, and he doesn't doubt that that moment will come soon.

Ah, but Marius has left his poor possessions here again. Perhaps he will come back for them later, and then Courfeyrac might convince him to join their cause. In the meantime, Courfeyrac hides an old coat of his in the middle of Marius' tiny stack of clothing, which with any luck, he'll not notice the difference.

No matter, Courfeyrac will not lose Marius' favor again.

* * *

 _Quatre_ _._

Feuilly sets his newly–painted fan out next to the window to dry. It's the last of the newest bunch he has to paint. It is nearing summer again, fans will once again be highly in demand, and he doesn't doubt that he can make more than enough to finance himself with his fan painting once more.

Ah, but the revolution is almost upon them with the General's death. Perhaps when they succeed, Feuilly will not have to worry about how much fans he could sell in this new world, that the right to live free will no longer be the monopoly of those seated on high.

No matter, Feuilly will do all that he can to achieve this dream.

* * *

 _Trois_ _._

Prouvaire strolls through the gardens of the Luxembourg, reciting his poetry aloud as he passes by the flower fields. The songbirds chirp him an accompaniment, and for a moment, Prouvaire has the urge to conduct them as if they were an avian orchestra, and he doesn't doubt the birds will obey.

Ah, but there is a different sort of orchestra he will soon face. People are already starting to line up the streets, all dressed in black crêpe.

No matter, Prouvaire will face the revolution with a spring in his step and a smile on his face.

* * *

 _Deux_ _._

Combeferre decides to stay at the café, helping Enjolras to plan for the coming assault. It is late, and he knows they both need to rest, but these plans cannot wait. He offers a steady hand to Enjolras whenever he can, revising strategies and reassembling hypothetical platoons of men, and he doesn't doubt Enjolras will listen to his advice.

Ah, but it is one thing to plan, and quite another to see the plan in action. Combeferre hopes they are enough to succeed.

No matter, Combeferre will always be there for Enjolras.

* * *

 _Un_ _._

Enjolras gives out orders, directing the printers to produce more pamphlets, the workers to strengthen their defenses, the students to gather more cartridges. Revolutions are not won through simple means, he knows, and he doesn't doubt that his efforts will not ultimately be in vain.

Ah, but he thinks, have we prepared enough? Will Paris rise with us when the time came? He hopes she does.

No matter, Enjolras will fight to the bitter end if he has to.


End file.
